Enzo: (demonstrating a ramming move) “If you succeed in not breaking your neck, it’s a good hard-impact blow.”

*

“I can run a whole mile at a staggering twenty miles an hour.”

*

Ever since we stopped reading picture books, Enzo listens to us read while wandering around the living room, checking stuff out, practicing fighting moves and what not. There are leaps and thumps. So I decided no more. Sit quietly. Do a puzzle or build something with dominoes. He’s fine with that, and it’s much more peaceful. But last night he was backsliding a bit, climbing up on the back of a chair, standing on the arm and then starting to step up on the back of the chair, which, if he really did it, would surely tip the chair over.

Me (looking up from the book): “What are you doing?”

Enzo: “Nothing. Do you mind?”

Me: “Get down from there. What are you trying to do, anyway?”

Enzo: “Nothing. It’s my flare for drama.”

*

Talking over our trip to Vegas, which starts tomorrow. Enzo: “I wouldn’t mind having a little Coca-Cola on the plane.”

*

On my way home from Happiness (happy hour) at the old office with my darling lawyer pals, I fell on my bike. It was a slow and ignominious tip-over. I’d decided to ride home on 23rd street instead of 24th, because even a slight change in route or the time of day you ride changes your whole view of things, or so I’d decided. I was going to take things in with fresh eyes. But I wasn’t used to where the stop signs were on 23rd, and my reflexes may have been dulled by wine, and then this car that I thought had to stop, didn’t, so I had to stop fast and didn’t have time to get out of my clips. I did have enough time to know I was going to fall and get ready, so that I wasn’t hurt. I lay in the street, still attached to both pedals, cursing like a virtuoso. Then I got up and pedaled home. And now I have a big bruise on my right thigh to match my bathing suit.

14 April 2014

Dear Max,

In Vegas, a 100% artificial environment, pure, in that way. Even the movement of water is man-made: the endless river, the wave pool. And right in the hotel there’s an aquarium/zoo with a golden crocodile and a komodo dragon and a lot of rays and sharks and other fishes that mean a lot to Enzo. We bought a membership so that we can go back every day. And he just said to me, “Rays are cool, with or without the stinger.” Since an aquarium in a hotel sounds cheesy and probably cruel, I feel compelled to add that it’s huge and very legit-seeming, affiliated with the Monterrey Bay Aquarium etc.

We requested a room overlooking the airport. We’re on the thirtieth floor. In the early morning dark, the city and airport lights were all stretched out, the outline of low jagged mountains sharp on the horizon and big planes taking off every few minutes in an even rhythm, dark against the lightening sky.

(I very much distrust sentences like the one I just wrote, which took a few minutes to put together and smells of oil, but I don’t want to dump it either—more writing problems.)